Full Of Grace
by C.M. Oliver is eastwoodgirl
Summary: Not all die with the roles we were born to play –but it matters not other than the life we have lived to flesh it out. Slash SS/HP. SSPOV


**FULL OF GRACE**

**A/N: ** Consider this my come back story. Baby steps… OS's first, then my multi-chaptered ones. It's hard trying to shift careers and get medical treatment on top of that… but I cannot give up this life. I adore you people too much. Sadly, I have bills to pay and RL to live so, bear with me, 'kay? By the way if you would kindly tell me what you think of this, it might help encourage me to FTW and just write fan fiction 24/7. Forget breathing.

Oh, this is my first attempt at an IC Severus… well, you be the judge. Remember, he's mellowed out after the war. If he were to be strictly IC, Snarry would NOT be possible. Ever. And Harry's pretty much IC here as well –or at least, how I think he would be if reality took over his story and did away with all those convenient measures the talented Ms. Rowling employed in her plot. Ah… Tell me what you think.

**Soundtrack: **Darkside –Dalton Academy Warblers

**WARNING:** Spoilers. Canon up to DH except that Snape did not die. Aurors found him, he was given a fair trial and he got off courtesy of Harry. Rated for Language and some Non-Graphic Violence. Obviously disregards Epilogue (that thing should be Incendioed). Slash. MXM. Established Snarry – depends on how you look at it. Mentions Death and Dying, but ends on a happy note. Major Fluff, but not enough to cause cavities. Told in 1st person POV.

**DISCLAIMER:** If I did own Harry Potter, Ginny Weasley would have never gone past COS, Siri and Remy would have lots of puppies and Hermione would be the Future Lady Malfoy. Like my take on it? You can all go sign a petition to have Harry Potter rights transferred to my name. Kidding.

**Note: **"dialogue", 'thoughts', _**flashback**_

**0101010101010101010101010101 01010101010**

**FULL OF GRACE**

**By C.M. Oliver**

**©2013**

**0101010101010101010101010101 01010101010**

"He has been found, Severus."

My breath hitched. My eyes immediately traveled across the dimly-lit space of the Hogwarts Teachers' Lounge and rested on the breathless, rather disheveled form of my younger colleague. I feigned nonchalance.

"Who, pray tell, are you pertaining to, Professor Granger?"

The Transfiguration Mistress' face paled. If it was from my pointedly caustic tone, or the indifference painted on my face, I did not bother to discern. The bushy-haired woman took a deep breath before answering me in a shaky voice. Her chocolate brown eyes shone with what were unmistakably unshed tears as she did.

"It's –it's H-Harry, Severus. He's been found at Godric's Hollow just this morning." A sob escaped her lips. "He – He's –"

Tears drowned out the rest of her words. I need not hear further. I took one last look at the former Gryffindor's defeated form before heading for the dungeons.

**0101010101010101010101010101 01010101010**

Five years.

Had it really been that long? The last time I saw that blasted man was in my bed –after a long and tiresome night of worshipping each other's sensitized flesh.

**0101010101010101010101010101 01010101010**

"_**Oh Sev," I could still hear his breathless whisper against my ear. We were wrapped up in each other's limbs, basking in the glow of post-coital bliss.**_

"_**Must you really use that appalling contraction of my name?" I asked. His brilliant eyes were full of mirth.**_

"_**Not my fault that your name is TOO long, SEV," he said, deliberately emphasizing the alias he had coined for me. "It's too much for my tongue, especially when my head's already busy elsewhere." There was a suggestive wiggle of eyebrow that had accompanied that pronouncement.**_

"_**You do not hear me calling you 'Har' while in the throes of passion now, do you?" I countered. He then smiled his charming 'I-know-that-I'm-being-an-annoying-brat-but-I-don't-care-because-I-know-you-love-me-anyway' smile. Four years into our post-war relationship and he still manages to disarm me with it.**_

"'_**Course you don't, Sev." He snuggled closer to me. What 27 year-old man snuggles, you ask me? Honestly, what 47 year-old man allows it anyway? I glanced at his eternally youthful face; his eyes were closed. Not bothering to continue with his line of reasoning any longer. I resigned myself to sighing.**_

_**It was kind of hard to believe, but for some reason, he always gets to have the last word in any argument that we have.**_

_**I was ready to let sleep finally pull me into its clutches when his voice broke the silence.**_

"_**Thanks," he said, almost shyly, his lips moving slowly against my bare chest.**_

"_**What on earth for?" I asked. For a while, a pregnant pause reigned in that two-bedroom flat we shared, first as housemates, then as lovers since shortly after he had returned from his travels abroad –soul searching –and began teaching Flying at Hogwarts. I reckoned he was trying to formulate some sappy clichéd 'for loving me, for being in my life' kind of response as he was always wont to do.**_

_**But a heavy heart-felt sigh a minute later, proved me wrong.**_

"_**For letting me ruin your good name."**_

**0101010101010101010101010101 01010101010**

I have always wondered –no, marveled –at the limit of one Harry James Potter –be it his mental shields, his threshold for pain, or his unwavering patience and determination. Amidst all his shortcomings, there seemed to have been no weakness in his person, no crack in his armor, no break in his façade. I have always wondered if there was such a thing that could cause him to falter. In my mind, the brash Gryffindor was annoyingly invincible.

That was until after the war.

He had fulfilled the Prophecy, fought his dues, served his purpose… Suddenly, there was nothing left for him to do. He was caught in a seemingly unending downward spiral.

I can still remember the day his mask came off –the world came crashing down. I was there to endure the broken pieces of a fallen hero's life being pulverized and scattered about like they were mere rubbish.

It was the day Harry Potter cried himself to sleep in my arms.

**0101010101010101010101010101 01010101010**

"_**Get the bloody hell out of my sight, Snape!" He stumbled his way towards the fireplace of the Leaky Cauldron. His hair was messier than usual; his robes, torn and singed in places; his rim-less glasses were askew; he was sporting a cut lip and a bruised cheek. He reeked of Firewhiskey and sweat. His emerald eyes were lifeless but still, he had managed to give me a heated glare. I did not relent. I used my body to block him from using the Floo.**_

"_**You are in no condition to travel, Potter."**_

_**The glare turned into a smirk, not unlike what I had on at that time.**_

"_**You are not my keeper –I had survived the war. Your life-debt had been repaid. Go bother someone else!" He tried to push past me. But inebriated or not, I still top him a good few inches and outweigh him more than a few pounds. I held my ground.**_

"_**Stop –you are making a spectacle of yourself," I said darkly. It was a half-truth; it was almost midnight when I got the floo-call from the barman. When I had arrived, the place was nearly empty. But still…**_

_**His eyes left me as he gazed around the area.**_

"_**D'you honestly think I care, Snape?" He took a step back –as if to better assess my being. "What are you doing here anyway, don't you have like stuff to brew or unassuming firsties to terrorize?"**_

_**I fought the urge to roll my eyes.**_

"_**As it is a school night and the Headmistress thinks it prudent that not one of her employees should spend the later hours of the day getting wasted…"**_

_**A bitter smile graced his swollen lips.**_

"_**Of course. The big, bad and mighty Severus Snape is sent in to save the day." There was resentment in his tone. "Another 'call of duty' then? Tell me Snape, how does it feel to be so fucking important? Huh? How does it feel to be needed?" He spat out the last word with much venom.**_

"_**Oh please, Potter. Spare me the dramatics." I retorted sharply. "This 'woe-is-me' attitude of yours is quite unbecoming –even for you." I closed our gap and grabbed his arm. To my surprise, he did not fight me off.**_

"_**I'm so lost." I heard him whisper. I froze in my spot at his defeated tone. The Wizarding Savior was arrogant and brazen –he was never resigned. He never spoke in such a hopeless manner. I was unable to stop myself from staring: his head was bowed low, the delicate curvature of his nape, exposed. Was I really looking at the man who defeated the Dark Lord?**_

"_**You are not lost," I told him matter-of-factly. 'I can tell you exactly where you are."**_

_**Hopeful eyes met mine.**_

"_**Could you?" There was more than just plain curiosity in that statement. I sighed.**_

"_**You are at the Leaky Cauldron." I dead panned. I was never much for humor, but I had hoped against hope that that was more than enough to break the tension. The eyes on me glanced at the hand I still had on his arm.**_

"_**You joked."**_

_**I tightened my grip on him, just in case.**_

"_**I do not see you nor hear you laughing, Potter. So in all essences, my statement could not be construed as humorous."**_

_**A small smile was the reward I got for that effort.**_

"_**Five years, Snape. Five bloody years and hardly anything has changed." He used his free hand to finger-comb his dark locks that was still as unruly as ever. "I'm still expected to kill Dark Lords, lay my life on the line, be a hero… I'm fucking tired of it! Bloody heel. I'm never going to get past that image, would I?"**_

_**I released his arm.**_

"_**You could have fooled me. With all that highly-publicized alcohol binges of yours, the fist-fights, those scandalous rendezvous with numerous men around the globe always plastered on the front pages almost daily –you sure are making progress in destroying the public's pre-conceived notion of the Boy-Who-Lived –pathetic."**_

_**His handsome face contorted in obvious discomfort. If it was from my accusatory tone or the words themselves, I did not know.**_

"_**You think I enjoy this?"**_

_**I grimaced at his biting tone, but held on nonetheless. He needed someone to have this conversation with. And with everyone else trapped within the mundane of their lives, I was the only option he had, loath am I to admit. I schooled my expression into one of neutrality.**_

"_**As I have said, you could have fooled me."**_

_**The last thing I saw after that was his fist heading towards my face.**_

'_**SMACK!'**_

"_**Bastard!"**_

_**I heard a gasp from somewhere behind him. It was Tom, the barman, and apparently the only one left to witness my confrontation with Potter. It must have been into the wee hours of the morning already.**_

_**My left cheek stung; it was sure to bruise, not that I cared. When I had sufficiently recovered from that punch, my eyes were met by a surprised look on Potter's face. I smirked.**_

"_**If you keep telling yourself –making yourself live according to some grand design, then you will always feel lost, Potter. Not all poor, unfortunate souls have some great destiny. Life is by nature mundane, impossibly boring, and minutely simple. Stop looking for purpose elsewhere. You've done your part by Fate and Destiny. It's over! Stop looking behind you back! Stop escaping –and live, for crying out loud!" By the time I was finished, I was almost out of breath from my rather impassioned plea.**_

"_**I hate being weak." He averted his gaze, his voice breaking at that last word. I did not expect that response. The Potter I knew would have hit me again and screamed that I do not understand a thing about him. The admission of weakness was something I did not see. My hand found its way to his shoulder somehow.**_

"_**Asking for direction is not weakness." My other hand came to life on its own and gently cupped his chin. Once again, those haunting emerald eyes were on to me. They were brimmed with unshed tears. "Crying is not weakness, Potter."**_

_**And then the tears began to fall.**_

_**The next events were all a blur. Somehow, I found myself with an armful of a crying 23 year-old young man. A gentle hand on my shoulder and a whisper discreetly told me that Room 14 upstairs was free for the night. I nodded absently and carefully lifted my load. Upstairs, in that dimly-lit room, I thought things would finally change for the better, for good, for the lost, weeping young man I held in my arms.**_

_**But it was not to be.**_

**0101010101010101010101010101 01010101010**

After leaving Granger alone in the staff room, I headed directly to my safe haven: the dungeons. I reverently whispered my password to the portrait guardian of Morgana:

"Emerald Tears,"

The door swung open and a barely-lit space greeted me. Before, the dungeons were perpetually dark –until the brat came and literally brought in light in the form of those blue-bell jam jar portable flames. But those flames have long gone; not since 5 years ago when Harry left without so much of a word have they illuminated this space. The dungeons were back to their almost-constant darkness.

The fireplace was roaring; no doubt the work of house elves. I approached my favorite black leather armchair and took a seat facing the fire. The dungeons were always cold, but the fire kept me warm enough –it kept me going. At one point, Harry Potter had been that spark in my dismal existence; I had once hoped that I could be his, too.

Five years. The first month, I had tried finding him. But when it went through my rather thick skull that he did not want to be found, I resigned myself to sending him owls. For about a year, I hounded him with letters night and day –at first asking him how he was, then his location, then demanding for an explanation. Everything was going well between us for four years since that fateful day at the Leaky. Why did he have to leave? It had been a frustrating routine as each owl I sent would return, untouched.

One year of that, then I had stopped.

That was when the first news of him came. It was on the front page of the Daily Prophet:

**Vanquisher of Voldemort, Found Partying Wildly in Greece!**

And as if the headline itself wasn't damning enough, somehow, somebody with a camera got near him… The photos were all it took for me to know.

He was atop a ledge, gyrating to an unheard melody –all the while provocatively stripping for a wild, cheering crowd…

I burned that paper, and the numerous ones that did come afterwards. Three years worth of kindle for my fire. On the last year however, the news had stopped coming. I stopped burning. I stopped caring.

Or so I thought.

Until today.

I wandlessly summoned a bottle of scotch and a wide shot glass. I was pouring a good two fingers of the amber liquid when a nondescript house elf popped in.

"The paper's special edition, Master Professor Sir,"

A rolled-up stack was dropped onto the low table in front of me. The elf apparated out without prompt. I eyed the delivery warily. It was the first time in almost a year that I would read the headlines. I drank my glass of scotch. My hands would not stop shaking. I reached for the newspaper and unfurled it ever so slowly –as if my action would delay the inevitable. The headline screamed at me in big, bold, angry letters:

**Lost Vanquisher of Voldemort, Found… Dead!**

I did not notice the glass on my hand as it shattered. Blood dripped from my fingers onto the cheap oriental carpeting of my chambers.

He had been found.

At long last.

**0101010101010101010101010101 01010101010**

Surprisingly, Harry Potter's funeral had been a quiet affair; if it was because of his diminished status as a partying, scandalous war hero, or the adamant precautionary measures on his tow best friends' part to prevent it from becoming a media spectacle, I do not know. It was just the Hogwarts Staff, the Weasleys and a handful of former DA members.

Everyone had grim faces. But, it wasn't hard to point out that amidst that gloom was a collective aura of relief.

As with Dumbledore's send-off, Harry Potter lay on a white marble altar in the middle of Hogwarts grounds. The early morning sun was traitorously shining brightly, illuminating the pale, eternally youthful face. The youngest Weasley brother had him don his scarlet Gryffindor Quidditch robes, stating that Harry had been happiest whenever he flew. I did not have the heart to argue.

All those present were asked to speak a few words about him. I politely declined.

Unlike Dumbledore, Harry was to be buried in Godric's Hollow –the place where it all began and fittingly ended. The Headmistress transfigured the marble into a regular coffin made out of holly and lined with emerald silk. I knew it would have matched his eyes –if only I could see them.

After the final blessings, the coffin was lowered into a pit right next to the headstone for Sirius Black that was placed there out of courtesy for there had been no body to bury. It was also next to Remus Lupin's grave. The two mongrels served as the brat's honor guards even in death, it would appear. As the mound of dug-out earth was replaced on top of it, those who had attended the service began to leave one by one. The last to depart were Granger and Weasley, holding hands, offering silent comfort to each other. I wonder how Harry would feel seeing those two back together because of him –his death; they were divorced three years into their marriage, but now it seemed that their best friend had led them back into each other's arms.

It was noon, but dark clouds then decided to roll by. The sun hid behind them. My gaze fell on to the mound of dirt that had covered Harry's remains. I drew out my birch and unicorn tail hair wand and took out Harry's own holly and phoenix feather one. With great regret, I snapped his wand into two. One half, I transfigured into a wreath of purple calla lilies –his favorite. I laid it on top of the turned earth.

The other half, I turned into a headstone. I then paused to think of the inscription. By the time that I was done, it had already started to drizzle.

I cast an Impervious on the black cloak I was wearing as I stared at my handiwork. The drizzle eventually progressed to a full-pledged rain. With one last look at the grave, I turned to leave.

**Harry James Potter**

**31 July 1980 -11 September 2012**

**Not all die with the roles we were born to play –but it matters not other than the life we have lived to flesh it out.**

**0101010101010101010101010101 01010101010**

'_**My –good name?" I almost laughed at his naviete. "Surely, you jest."**_

_**His arms around me loosened as he pulled away slightly to look at my face.**_

"_**You're a hero, Sev. People look up to you –Order of Merlin and all..." There was an almost wistful tone in his voice. "They tried to drag you down before, but you proved them wrong." Now there was a hint of pride. I found myself genuinely smiling at him.**_

"_**I must reiterate the fact that I do not care for public perception, Harry. You must know that." I pulled him closer. He fought my arms, adamant to stare me in the eye as we spoke.**_

"_**Do you know what they call me nowadays?" He asked. "The Hero Who Fell From Grace. Rita has such a flair for words, don't you think?"**_

_**I frowned.**_

"_**Harry –"**_

"_**Apparently after my travels to see the world, they all expected me to be this incredible crime-busting auror who would uphold the truth and justice and all that jazz. So when they had found out that I'd rather teach Flying at Hogwarts, they sort of got disenchanted. Apparently I was under some contract to be all perfect and high and mighty for the rest of my life –" His voice started wavering. "So – when I started freewheeling –they thought –they thought –"**_

_**I had heard enough. I pulled him even closer in a tight embrace.**_

"_**As I have said, I care for no one's opinion other than mine. I do not think of you that way, Harry. You deserve a life. You are not weak." I buried his head in the crook of my neck and gently ran my fingers through his hair. "I know you are confused. I know you did those things to prove to yourself that you can feel –to rebel against the public's perception of you –to break their stereotype of a hero. But know this, Harry, you need not waste your life away just to prove a point –"**_

"_**But Sev, it hurts. It hurts so much."**_

"_**Know this, no matter what, you are loved."**_

_**He pulled away from me one last time and sighed.**_

"_**You are too good for me, Sev. I'm sorry for causing you much trouble."**_

_**I was about to protest, but he silenced me with a smile –however it was one that did not reach his eyes.**_

"_**I can only promise to try and do as you say. You know how bull-headed I could be."**_

_**Nevertheless, I returned his smile, ignoring that gnawing feeling of doubt and uncertainty at the back of my mind.**_

"_**I would not expect anything less from a Gryffindor."**_

_**We fell silent again after that. He went back to his position against my chest, and for a while I thought that he had already fallen asleep. But after a few minutes into the silence, he spoke once again.**_

"_**Thank you Sev,"**_

"_**What is it this time, hmm?"**_

_**This time, he did not disappoint me with the sappy reply.**_

"_**For loving me, time and time again. No matter how unworthy I may be… for being my saving grace." I resolved to counter him with my usual sarcastic tirade about him and his self-pity and how he was twisting the very laws of nature by telling me that I was his grace –but I was hushed by a quick peck on the lips and a hastily whispered "Goodnight." I sighed resignedly as I closed my eyes for that one last time I was to have him in my arms.**_

_**Until the end, he had the last words.**_

**0101010101010101010101010101 01010101010**

_**FIN**_

**0101010101010101010101010101 01010101010**

**A/N: Point for clarifications that might help:**

Harry defeated Voldemort when he was 18. He and Severus were civil to each other by this time. Immediately after, Harry departs to travel, trying to find himself. The scene at the Leaky was five years later after he had returned from his travels and accepted the post of Flying Instructor at Hogwarts –he's 23 by then. This is the part where he and Severus became an item. The bed scene was 4 years later, Harry's 27. Things started to get rough for him yet again. It was also the year when he had left Severus without any explanation whatsoever. The scene with Severus and Hermione was 5 years after Harry disappeared –he would have been 32 by then.

How Harry died was not deliberately mentioned, but to those wondering, he died of a broken heart.

Now the explanation for his behavior? A combination of PTSD (post-traumatic stress disorder) and his own insecurities. A child raised on neglect and scorn and who was forced to grow up faster than most would most likely have self-issues. It is a very realistic aftermath of surviving a war with much death and destruction on its heels.

Please feel free to comment. Until next time – C.


End file.
